Tag Archives: Big boobs

A couple days ago, while I was out driving around my new town, trying to figure out where things are and find cheap casserole dishes and maybe a cast iron pan that had been cast-off, I was struck by sudden hunger. This has become normal. I often find myself suddenly struck by things. The need to pee is common as is the urge to drink water and food so it wasn’t terribly shocking. But, the strength with which the urge came upon me was a little amazing. The dear-father-of-little-creep was with me. Because we had been living 1000 miles away from each other, he had only heard second hand accounts of this phenomenon. I’m pretty sure he didn’t fully appreciate how insane these needs really are. He’s been pretty sympathetic with the constant bathroom trips and that when I need to go, I need to go. Not in five minutes, not in ten, but now. When I realize I have to pee, we’ve got about 2 minutes to get me to the nearest restroom or wooded area so I can go. If not, I will suddenly need to sneeze and out it will come and then I still have to pee, but now I’m also sitting in my own quickly cooling urine and that is no fun for anyone. I had not realized the bladder was connected to the nasal cavities, but the proof is in the pudding or the puddle, so to speak if you want to be gross. I do. I want to be gross. I figure, these are the only months in my life when I can be totally disgusting and it’s okay. It’s not my fault after all. I am on auto-pilot here. My auto pilot just so happens to be set for course for gross.

Being on pregnancy related auto-pilot isn’t so bad when you are at home, in bed as I was for several months. I wasn’t prescribed bed rest or anything like that. I’m incredibly healthy and the pregnancy is moving along very smoothly. I just didn’t want to really get up to do anything. I would only put clothes and make up on because being in pajamas all day made me feel trailer trash and dumpy. It’s is hard enough looking like humpty dumpty naturally, without exacerbating it with dirty, stretched out pajamas or other such lounge wear. Also, if I’m wearing pajamas, I’m not wearing a bra and my tits are huge and heavy. Because gravity doesn’t get weaker during pregnancy I have to keep the girls hoisted up. It’s not so much an issue with them looking bad now. They look fine. I just don’t want them to get used to the stretch and then even when they are not so full of tissue to hang down to my belly button or have to be lifted to fasten a belt. Is that petty? Probably, but I’m pretty sure I don’t care. So, daily, I get up, I brush my teeth, wash my face, do something with my hair and put actual clothing on.

Because I no longer live in a house with two smelly dogs and one cute, little, perfect dog I find my clothing doesn’t get quite so dirty so I can just keep recycling them. Well, until I splatter bacon grease on them or finally decide the knees have stretched out too much and not look like they belong on elephants and not me. I’m still doing leggings most of the time. I did wear leggings most of the time before I was pregnant and I see no reason to change that now. I just wear bigger size leggings. I would really love some leather leggings but I’m pretty sure $1000 for legging I will wear for just a few more months is maybe a little silly. They would look hot though. Well, as hot as one can look 6 months preggers or more. Which, pregnancy fetishists aside, isn’t that hot.

When I’m at home, no matter how I’m dressed, I can really push the envelope when it comes to going to the bathroom or eating something because if I went to far, relief is only a second away. I’ve been known to grab a slice of bread while waiting for my egg and toast to cook or sprint to the bathroom and fling myself on the toilet when I’ve waited a bit too long to relieve myself. Inevitably, I sneeze halfway there and then I have to sprint while trying to hold my legs apart so I don’t get pee running down my legs. Yeah, that was really gross. Sorry. But, while out, I don’t have those options. In order to get some food, I can either go through a drive thu, which I avoid because I really don’t want my infant son to have tits from the phyo-estrogens in the soy products that act as fillers in almost all fast food items or to have digestive problems and behavioral problems from the corn syrup that is in all those items as well. Best not to start that while I’m still pregnant. I know I won’t be able to control what he eats his whole life, but while I’m all knocked up and keeping him safe in my belly, I can. Even going to a restaurant takes too much time to get the food on the table. Hell, finding a parking spot takes too much time. Usually, I carry some sort of starchy something with me all the time. This, more than anything, makes me feel like I’ve become a mom. I used to always have a flask with me. Now I always have a banana or maybe a pack of crackers. The other day, knowing that I was going to be out all day, I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple, a banana and a few slices of cheese.

I never used to worry about food. I was always a non-issue in my life. I ate when I was hungry and more often than not, if I was eating outside the house it was with friends and it was more like picking at the food and gulping down drinks. I guess those are the changes everyone talks about. The little creep totally forced me into it. He’s in control. He’s the pilot of this ship. I’m just the passenger. No, wait, I’m just the ship.

I realized, I needed to finish my shopping trip from the other day. After I finally finished looking through the racks of horrible little boy baby monster clothes, I made my way over to the bra and undies section. I had to cross the housewares and managed to not pick up the cute railroad lantern I saw and even fondled a bit. It just doesn’t make sense to buy things for my house when I will be moving all of the contents of it in about a week. It can wait, and I’m sure Oregon will have equally cute things in their off-price retail stores. I wade through the lacy underpants and find myself in the 34 section of the bras. I walk all the way down to the end and see that they only seem to have a few 34Ds there, so I assume the big girl bras must all be together. You know, like the 34Ds will be chilling with the 40DDD and the like. Maybe so as not to make the 34Bs feel strange about their normal sized breasts. So, I walk over to the other side of the section. Yeah, this has got to be it. No longer do I see any bras made with transparent lace or delicate straps. The suckers on this end are made to seriously support some serious boobage. I saw one that had 2 inch over the shoulder straps! Wow, that is some bra. It was, horribly, a 42FF. I couldn’t imagine having either parts of that size! Whenever I see that sort of thing, I find myself imagining the woman who would wear that bra. It’s a little frightening. There is no part of my body, even half way through a pregnancy, that measures 42 inches and I’m really, really happy for that. Although, I just measured and I’m not too far from that. My belly at its biggest is 39 inches around and is officially the biggest it has ever been.

At any rate, I walked my way down to the end of the aisle and couldn’t find anything smaller than a 38D. Clearly, I was wrong about keeping the 34Ds down here. So, back to the other end again and again no luck. There were still only a couple bras and to tell you quite frankly, I really have zero need for lacy balconette style bras right now and I certainly don’t think I’ll ever need one that says FUBU on it. Just as I’m anti-advertising for infant wear, I’m equally anti-advertising for myself and really, really agains advertising on my bits and pieces. Ross had failed me. But, I seriously needed a new bra so I headed over to Nordstrom and the welcoming arms of soft jazz and actual sales people.

Once I hit Nordstrom, I had a very brief stop in Salon Shoes and salivated a little tiny bit over some amazing boots that would be amazing, but they are just a little too unreasonable right now. Soon though. Soon. They will be mine and even better, I will get them on sale. I hoped on the escalator and headed over to bras. I looked around for no longer than a minute when a lovely woman approached me. I asked her if they had nursing bras. I was figuring, if I’m going to go to the bother of spending $50 on a bra, I might as well get one that will last me for a good long while and will be useful after the little pumpkin head is born. Shit, I hope the kid doesn’t have a pumpkin sized head. Ouch. Maybe one of those little table top decorator pumpkins but surely not one of those County Fair pumpkins. ::cringe:: Okay, enough with that horrible thought!

She ushers me into a dressing room and I tell her I really need to be fitted as I am (pointing to my belly) preggers and my boobs keep getting and bigger. I tell her the last time I was fitted was 6 months before I was pregnant and I was a 34C. She looked at me and told me that had clearly changed. So, I strip down to my bra. Embarrassingly, I was wearing a bralette that at one time fitted my body and no longer did and was also frayed from a couple weeks of wearing it over my newly enormous breast. She measured my rib cage and tells me I’m still a 34. Sweet. And then turned me around and took a good look. I was either a DD or a DDD. Yeah, that’s right. DDD. 34DDD. Not only had pregnancy given me a lovely glow and pleasant disposition, it had now given me DDD. Maybe. She left the room and came back with a nursing bra and two non-nursing but very sturdy looking but stretchy bras for me to try. I went with the regular bras. I didn’t even want to try on the nursing bra. It was cute and all, as cute as a bra that has a built in pocket for nursing pads can be, but it just didn’t feel right. I wanted a regular one. One last regular bra purchase. I’m going to be in nursing bras for the next 18 months to 2 years anyways, why jump the gun? Shit. I’m going to be a food source for nearly two years. That is so crazy. I swear, sometimes it just hits me and this is all so foreign and so strange. I know other first timers out there go through this too. Sometimes I just want to back out, but um, that’s not really possible and not even legal in most states at this point. I don’t really want to anyways, just sometimes it gets a little real and then I get a little freaked and then I breath and I feel better. There. Now. I feel better.

On with the story. She did bring in a DD as well so I try that on and the bra is just too big. It’s for sure an old lady bra and while I don’t normally wear anything flashy, I still don’t wear bras that cover my breast bone almost to my throat as there is nothing remotely sexy about that. Well, I guess a plastic surgeon might find that sexy because he knows that properly fitted bras, worn 24 hrs a day, will be holding breasts that stay in the upright position when the bra does come off for a few minutes. Other than that, they are not sexy or nice to look at. I don’t want to be Grandma F. She had huge boobs and they were always trussed up in these amazing contraptions. They were always beige. They were always cone shaped. They were always there to make my sister and I laugh when we would poke around in the grandparents dressers when we were visiting them in Florida. Yeah, my grandparents lived in Florida. They had orange trees and were drunk by 11 am every day and played golf. We were that kind of family.

She gives me the demi version of the huge bra in a DD and that was actually okay. My only concern was that it fit a little too well. I could see a little area that was a bit too snug and new I would be grown out of it within a fortnight. So, I told her this and she ran off to the store room and came back…empty handed. The less horrible of the two horrible bras. The two bras they carry that will both support me and will stretch with me as I continue to grow into possibly FF size do not come in the same size range. If I want the one that will fit me in a week and extend the time I can wear it, I will have to go with the nana bra. I breathed a deep sigh and resigned myself to it. After all, what I’m going for here is support so I don’t end up with utters at the end of this whole making and feeding a baby thing.

So, there I was. She left me in the room to get back into my ridiculous “bra.” I looked at myself in the mirror and shed a figurative little tear. A tear for my body. A tear for my style. Then I looked down at my big belly in the mirror and the little stinker gave me a little kick in my full bladder and made me pee a little. So much for feeling sorry for myself. I had to get a bathroom, now.

So, here we have one of the old bras over the new one. Incase you are wondering, the black one now sits well under my nipples.